Grateful Though I Am No Billionaire

A poem about not being too rich to have a soul

One Hundred Days of Gratitude. Four.

I would pay you to tell me:

How many people did they put in prison? How much for an army of lawyers?

What did he say about blood and soil? What would it cost to find all future employers?

I would pay you to tell me:

Who still needs water? Who do I have to grease to get it done?

What are they in the hospital for? What do they do for fun? What about funding a cure? What about making sure the street drugs are pure, next time?

I would pay you to tell me:

When they came in god’s name how many were murdered? How many were raped? Where do they live and how much would it take?

For a rough noose around every neck and / or a bullet in every back from over a mile away?

What about drone strikes and assignations in foreign nations if I “knew” they deserved to die?

How much did you say it would cost me to turn a silver spoon into a golden knife?

If that was life, then I would just pay you to tell me: What I was doing was right.